


notes on rosemary

by entremelement



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Eventual Romance, Fluff, M/M, Mild Language, Non-Linear Narrative, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23301289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entremelement/pseuds/entremelement
Summary: “Actually, rosemary comes from Latinros marinus—dew of the sea.”“Wow.” Atsumu doesn’t lift his head up nor show any signs of movement. He doesn’t shift and this makes Hinata a tad uneasy.“What, why?”“’Ya know, tangerine, for someone who can’t spellSchweidenproperly, ‘ya sure know a lot of weird facts.”In which Miya Atsumu remembers a lot of things.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou & Miya Atsumu, Hinata Shouyou/Miya Atsumu
Comments: 17
Kudos: 268





	notes on rosemary

**Author's Note:**

> Much like Miya Atsumu here, I have a love/hate relationship with remembering--only that my concerns are along the lines of figuring out what it means to write, and how to do it decently. I haven't properly written anything in a long while, and I am simply a humble contributor who belongs to the growing number of AtsuHina stans. I hope you all enjoy. 
> 
> Please do leave a comment and help an author improve her craft.

It’s not like Miya Atsumu lacked his share of non-eloquent moments. He’s been horribly embarrassed before. This is nothing new.

As a matter of fact, he’s pretty sure that if he trades in his volleyball for rice balls, like Osamu, he’d fumble in mentally computing his sales and in talking to the customer simultaneously. It’s not as if he hasn’t tried; he’d taken over the counter once, for fun. A simple black cap snugly keeping his blonde locks hidden and nobody would know the difference.

He remembers that ‘ _Thank again, come for patronage!’_ isn’t his most stellar line.

Imagine Osamu’s surprise when he found his twin huddled underneath the booth table, hugging his legs, face squished in between his knees. ‘ _Never make me do this again, you ass,’_ were the only words that escaped his mouth as Osamu gasped for air in between guffaws.

Yes, he’s certain he wouldn’t trade his volleyball career in for anything else, _especially_ not rice balls. No more bouts of wanting to be swallowed by the ground, of wanting to disappear on a whim. Atsumu, the twin who blames all his service errors on the audience, the fountain of endless haughtiness himself, absolutely _despises_ being embarrassed. No more of that. After all, volleyball’s the only thing he can now proudly claim as his, with Osamu out of the picture and off the court.

Remembering, he feels, is both his pride and folly. What he would give to live a quiet life without the occasional pang of embarrassment from his old antics.

* * *

Frankly, this isn’t a matter of a missed jump serve, or a mighty cross that gets sucked in the net while tons of people are watching. It’s not volleyball today. This isn’t customer service, either, no, not this time. Today, the embarrassment is real and heavy on Atsumu’s shoulders.

“Oi, Tsum Tsum. Tsumuuuu! Are you okay?!” Bokuto places a hand on the setter’s stiff shoulder, tries to shake the soul out of him all while beaming in his face.

Miya Atsumu does not even attempt to swat his teammate’s hand away. He remains seated, his bottom veritably glued to the team’s locker room benches, eyes empty, one jacket sleeve slipping down. Air inside the locker room was light today, with the exception of the looming cloud above Atsumu’s head. Eminem’s song would be put to shame with Atsumu’s current sorry state: face drained of all blood, cold sweat beading on his glistening forehead, arms like dead weight on his sides, palms facing upwards. Despite his strong stature, his legs feel like melted ice cream. Bokuto’s force isn’t enough to jiggle him out of his misery. The man simply opens his eyes wider, eliciting the tiniest flinch from Atsumu.

Atsumu tilts his head to the side, leaning most of himself on the open locker door, muttering, “why was I even born,” over and over. In his 22 years of existence, _not once_ did he slip in front of so many people. Not in a fan event, not even in front of his teammates, and certainly not--

Bokuto raises an eyebrow at Atsumu and his sorry state. The man grabs both his setter’s shoulders. “HEY, HEY, HEY!” he exclaims.

Atsumu swears he could _feel_ Bokuto’s voice reverberate in his head.

Unsure of what to make of Atsumu’s grimacing face, Bokuto lets go and backs up. He goes into a stance, legs straight, arms crossed on his chest, head nodding; the man is practically oozing with confidence. “I’m doing great, ‘Tsumu!” A fist pumps into the air as Atsumu clutches his chest. “I didn’t ask, Bokuto-san.”

See, Atsumu can manage a rowdy Bokuto on a normal day, but this isn’t one of those instances. The MSBY Black Jackals, one of Japan V-League First Division’s best teams, was invited today for a fan event in Miyagi. Fan events are normal: put on a nice smile, demonstrate your skills for a bit, sign some autographs, pose for some photos, and it’s all over. Yes, maybe he’s not too keen on babysitting high school students in the middle of the day, much less interact with them, but he needs to dial his snob down a bit. It was far too early for one of captain Shugo’s death glares outside their usual court.

What he didn’t expect was the fact that they’d be meeting Karasuno kids in Miyagi. He forgets that _they_ were from Miyagi in the first place, and he, not too fond of remembering at the moment, winces at this.

> Not long after they arrived just outside the school grounds by bus, the unenthusiastic setter grumbles and attempts to go down the vehicle, heel stepping down way too hard, only to find himself too far forward. A misstep, and he slides down, bottom first, down one—no—two steps of the bus and onto the concrete, finally.
> 
> As if it’s not enough that all the passers-by who saw the now-flustered setter had reactions ranging from light chuckles to intense laughter channeled deep from diaphragms, he sees Karasuno’s #10. No, not this year’s #10—the one he promised to toss to, standing in front of the parked bus, whose energetic leaps with Bokuto were unexpectedly interrupted by his fall.
> 
> “Ah!” the familiar boy shouts, “ah, you’re in the team too, Miya-san? I didn’t read up on the Jackals much when I was in Brazil but, hi, I’m back, I’d like to talk to the coach—“

Atsumu raises his right hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, rubbing small circles in to ease his psychological pain, an exercise in futility.

“The embarrassment comes back periodically, Bokuto-san. Spray some Air Salonpas on my brain, maybe this’ll disappear, won’t ‘ya?”

* * *

Perhaps it’s the energy jelly that Atsumu hurriedly slurped down earlier, or maybe it’s his new competition kicks and the way they snugly fit his ankles, or maybe it’s the way he parted his hair today—it’s not sticking to his forehead with the ends poking down to block his line of sight, but he _swears_ that he could feel that _this_ is the serve. It’s time.

Settling behind the line, he holds the ball in his left to spin it in its place with his dominant hand. _Yes, this feels like a good one._ The Sendai Gymnasium is deathly still, and rightfully so, this godforsaken audience didn’t need to be told twice, like infants. He hears the whistle and he’s off.

Remembering this stance is crucial. Atsumu mentally counts the steps he would take before he throws the ball in a sharp vertical motion, never taking his eyes off of it. He surmises that there have been countless days of him running up the court to meet the ball in a jump serve, only to find himself short, as he always does, by at least three steps. Steadying one’s self isn’t exactly the easiest thing, but in two to three years’ time, he found himself flawless at keeping his core unwavering.

 _Top spin it, three steps, jump, then smash it hard._ Atsumu doesn’t blink, he maps out the familiar corners of his own home court in Inarizaki in his head, never mind the brighter lights, and makes this Sendai court his own. This isn’t Inarizaki, but one can only imagine. _He’s waiting. Make it count._

Tunnel vision catches onto him, and Atsumu attempts to recalibrate his vision for a fearsome serve. Atsumu’s eye catches a faint sliver of orange in front, belonging to a man whose hair is now much shorter than he’d last become accustomed to in court. As if taunting him, this man puts his hands behind his head, bracing for impact. He wonders, _just wonders, you know, out of curiosity,_ how life would have been if the orange-haired wing spiker became Inarizaki’s middle blocker back then, _or better yet, their_ wing spiker, practically knocking Osamu out of the picture.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe Osamu would have sold rice balls earlier on. Just maybe.

A smirk creeps on his face and he takes a step, two, three—

* * *

It’s ironic that Miya Atsumu absolutely hates the woods, yet finds himself loving the fact that he catches a whiff of rosemary in Hinata’s hair every so often.

Today, the MSBY Black Jackals called their semi-regular training off, a perfect reward for the team’s hard work for the past season. Off-season blues have started kicking in for most of the teammates, Atsumu included, so Coach Samson deemed it as a sort of quick reprieve for his boys to take the day off and recalibrate themselves.

Of course, spending the day off would mean Atsumu would have to sink himself in bed the whole day in Hinata’s, no, _their_ apartment.

Atsumu’s cheek brushes against Hinata’s after he slowly crawls under the covers to meet _his_ wing spiker face-to-face. Hinata, however touched by the gesture, turns away, obviously flustered. In silence, he simply burrows his nose in Hinata’s hair, a sea of orange. “Hey, Shoyo,” Atsumu gently pushes some of Hinata’s locks aside with his nose, trying to burrow deeper, “Your hair always smells like rosemary, s’kinda nice.”

Well, it’s not like Hinata had any other shampoo bottles stashed up in their apartment aside from the off-brand one he usually gets in a hurry. Not that this was an active choice, as he wasn’t particularly meticulous when he shops for himself. Atsumu likes Hinata like this—no frills, low-maintenance, _his_ messy tangerine.

“Hey, ‘Tsumu,” Hinata, unfazed, doesn’t stiffen when Atsumu begins to wrap lean arms around his smaller frame. “Didn’tcha know that, hey—" Atsumu brings himself down to Hinata’s nape, where his prickly baby hairs start to thin, a place where Atsumu finally decides to settle. He lays his cheek on the boy’s skin. “Stop,” Hinata chuckles, “I’m ticklish. Okay—wait, here’s what I was saying—didn’tcha know that, hey, STOP—rosemary, yeah, the scent you smell on me right now, ‘Tsumu,” Hinata giggles at Atsumu’s contact with his nape and Atsumu’s cheeks swiftly flush red, “actually, rosemary comes from Latin _ros marinus_ —dew of the sea.”

“Wow.” Atsumu doesn’t lift his head up nor show any signs of movement. He doesn’t shift and this makes Hinata a tad uneasy. Hinata pushes his hair back and chuckles weakly, “what, why?” This time, Atsumu chuckles. “’Ya know, _tangerine_ , for someone who can’t spell Schweiden properly, ‘ya sure know a lot of weird facts.”

Hinata grunts, almost hits Atsumu when he begrudgingly turns to face him. Eye to eye, Atsumu gave him a tired smile. “Only kiddin’. Thought you were gon’ be a smartass about it like Tobio-kun.” With his free hand, Atsumu pushes Hinata’s hair back, only for some orange strands to spring back in place. “I only know one thing about rosemary.”

“What?”

It would kill Atsumu to be far away from this man. Hinata now has one eyebrow up, but his drowsiness takes its toll, eyes half-open. Atsumu swears he could map out Hinata’s features forever in his mind this way. Atsumu carefully approaches Hinata’s face, closes his eyes and burrows against the sleepy man’s cheek. 

“The scent helps you _remember_.”

* * *

The room, a mess: notebooks splayed on the floor, shattered glass from the lamp thrown across the room glistening against the fluorescent overhead light, futon kicked aside, full of stomp marks, blood on one of the twins’ feet, two teenage boys lying on the floor, books scattered across the room.

Both heaving a long, exasperated sigh, the twins untangle themselves from the mess of fallen mangas. What once was stacked on the floor fell like Jenga on both of them; in hindsight, Atsumu should have listened to his twin when he offered a free bookshelf in his room.

> The scene was veritably serene—Osamu lying down on his brother’s futon, reading one of his many _Naruto_ volumes, legs crossed with one foot up, tracing circles with his toes mid-air. Enter his twin, madness ensues. Never mind that his brother is on _his_ bed, reading _his_ manga, making him feel like _his_ room isn’t private. No, this was something else.
> 
> “’Samu, head the fuck outta here,” Atsumu’s voice was low and strained,df he struggles to keep it tame, “y’got my manga, so skedaddle.”
> 
> Now, Osamu normally would just silently get up, slam the door behind him and proceed to his room, but the twin senses it: the other’s voice is low and slow, like a secret waiting to be unfurled. What he did, instead, is to set the manga down, sit up from the bed into a squat and give his twin a sweeping kick.
> 
> Before falling on his ass, Atsumu immediately used his right hand, placing it underneath his bottom to soften the blow. As soon as he lands, he inspects his hand, his wrist. _No damage. Thank goodness._
> 
> “What the _fuck_ did you just do, you ass?” Atsumu was positively seething. Osamu, retreated to his usual position again—lying down on his brother’s futon, legs crossed, reading Naruto—hums before letting out a chuckle. “You’ve never been this pressed, ‘Tsumu, I just needed ta’ shock you out of it.”

“You’ve never been the greatest in tryna’ calm me down, ‘Samu.” Atsumu carefully sits up and reaches for a nearby tissue, eyeing his bloody foot. Gingerly, the boy dabs the site, carefully feeling if there are excess shards lodged in his foot. “But I ain’t great at keepin’ everything in, either.” Osamu wastes no time in skipping over the shards and grabs a dustpan and broom from the adjacent room. The twin comes back, expressionless, promptly sweeps the floor. “Well, ‘Tsumu, you’re relatively easy to read, y’know,” he hums inspecting the floor for any traces of leftover shards.

Osamu empties the dustpan in Atsumu’s waste basket, sets the broom and dustpan down where he first got it, and proceeds to pick up the fallen mangas. “It’s Karasuno’s #10.”

As soon as the words escaped Osamu’s mouth, Atsumu’s head is filled with thoughts of that little boy—the tangerine who does nothing but Tobio-kun’s bidding. It’s the same boy with the nasty quick, simultaneously acting as a decoy for his teammates. The tangerine boy who would willingly take two steps forward to receive the ball with his face, only if it means the ball would still be in play.

“Ya promised to set to him, remember? Horrible, ‘Tsumu. T’was like you forgot ‘ya had teammates,” Osamu sets down some of the mangas on the floor and proceeds to pick more up for additional stacks.

* * *

Despite what anyone says, Miya Atsumu has never been, and will never be a night owl.

Imagine his surprise, however, when one particularly quiet night, his phone rings. Atsumu peeks out of his futon, his dyed hair up in a small topknot. He fumbles in the dark for his phone, groping and feeling his tatami mat for the source of the sound, but it quickly stops. Five seconds pass. Before he could dismiss the phone and mentally promise to call back the morning after, it rings again.

This time, his eyes are fully open. He spots his phone next to his pillow on the futon, and he wonders how it could have gotten there, considering he hasn’t had anyone to talk to for the past hours. He usually sets it down on his study table and, oh God, it’s still ringing and vibrating off of his futon.

Without looking at the contact, he slides a finger across the screen and puts the phone to his ear.

“Now who might be calling me at such an ungodly ho—“

“Hey, Atsumu-san?”

Atsumu freezes. Did he hear that right? Surely it wasn’t—

“Shoyo?”

Of all the times this man had to call, it had to be at midnight, and, not to mention, his voice is particularly hitched today. Bloke that he is, he put his phone on mute and began loud vocal exercises. It was met with a thud from the wall adjacent to him, presumably by Osamu from the other room, throwing whatever in sight against the shared wall before shouting _it’s fuckin’ nighttime, ‘Tsumu, shut ya’ trap!_ On the other line, however, “Atsumu-san? Sorry, I can’t slee—oh, did I disturb you?”

Atsumu isn’t exactly the best at his half-awake state. “Shoyo-kun, no, I’m here, hi—“

He hears a short chuckle from Shoyo. “Well, I guess you fell asleep, then.” Wait, why would he think that? _Oh, right, the phone was on mute._

Atsumu curses himself for being so absent-minded. He needed his brain cells to work, _especially_ since he’s talking to Hinata.

“I-I know this is me chickening out, talkin’ and talkin’ while you’re asleep, and I don’t do this a lot, okay?! But.. I think.. I think I might have an answer now.”

Wait, what? What was that, again? An answer to _what,_ exactly? By now, Atsumu was fully awake, but he cannot, for the life of him, remember what Shoyo’s trying to say. Is it an answer to ‘do you want some of ‘Samu’s rice balls’ because he knows that Shoyo would definitely say yes to that, or is it ‘what time is training tomorrow, again, considering that coach would be out the whole morning’? _What the hell did he have the answer to?_ Atsumu winces and squints, trying to remember. “Shoyo—“

“It’s, yeah. Yes. It’s a yes.” _What? A yes? What?_ “Shoyo, I—“

“Ya might not hear this, and even if ya do, I bet your ass ya might think this is a dream, Atsumu-san.” _What the hell was he saying?_ Atsumu raises his phone up and stares at it. He’s still on mute. At that moment, he’s confirmed that he’s a definite bloke. A finger finds its way to press the mute button.

“Hi, Shoyo.” With his reply, the man on the other line is suddenly silent. Now, Atsumu’s convinced that he shocked the living daylights out of his teammate. It’s _Shoyo_ he’s talking to; it’s his soul should have left his body a good minute ago, and not the other way around. _It’s Shoyo._ A proper bloke, but a bloke nevertheless, he speaks, “Ya caught me off-guard there, Shoyo. Yes to what?”

The line stays silent. Atsumu’s still clueless. It seems cliché to say that a million things are running through his mind, but that’s exactly the situation he’s in; what would be so serious that Shoyo would want to talk about it at, what, one in the morning? Wow, the pauses have been that long? Heck, for someone so spirited during morning trainings, Atsumu could swear that Hinata slept at a much earlier time than he did.

“Shoyo, did _you_ fall asleep?” Atsumu teases, raising an eyebrow and making a slight hand gesture. He follows the grain of the tatami mat with an index finger, holding the phone to his ear. “You know, we could talk about it in the mor—“

“I’m saying yes to _you_ , Atsumu.”

Atsumu abruptly _gets it_.

* * *

Recollection’s always been Atsumu’s strong suit apart from being a talented setter.

Nary was there a moment that Atsumu didn’t think of the orange-haired boy, his voice deep with curiosity as soon as he caught sight of Hinata that fateful nationals day. _Just who_ , he pondered at that very moment, _might this little tangerine be?_

Hinata Shoyo, he learned at that moment, was this boy’s name. The name rang in his head no more than a thousand times when he heard it, as soon as Inarizaki played Karasuno. Imagine being robbed of a set by this, this _miniscule thing_. Apart from being horribly frustrated that his higher-ups won’t get the chance to play in the nationals longer—curiosity, he fathoms, always gets the better of him. It picks at his brain and consumes him, synapses cruelly plucked one by one like petals. This continues on until he gets the opportunity to satisfy himself with information. Today, he’s utterly sated.

Now, he stands at the attack line of his home court, the same boy—no, man—a few meters beside him, grinning. It seemed like an eternity, but the referee finally blows a long whistle—it’s finally over. The MSBY Black Jackals, including Oliver Barnes on the bench, broke the silence with such energetic screams. They won, after the longest rally, they won. 

Atsumu doesn’t expect it, but when he approaches the boy with arms outstretched, asking for an embrace, his calves freeze. Atsumu’s stuck in place, but that doesn’t hinder the orange-haired boy.

A hop, skip, and a jump, and Hinata’s leapt into Atsumu’s arms, wrapping almost all his extremities around the stationary setter. Atsumu’s absolutely motionless as Hinata helps himself and smiles against _his_ setter’s collarbone. “We did it, ‘Tsumu!” Hinata looks up at Atsumu and the still-frozen setter melts in place when Hinata beams at him, all arms and legs occupied in the embrace. Atsumu, finally able to move his arms but completely unaware that he’s breathless, raises a hand to ruffle Hinata’s hair, that sea of orange, _his tangerine_. As Hinata inevitably giggles and hides his face by burrowing against his neck, Atsumu finally takes a deep breath.

Without meaning to, he catches a whiff of rosemary.

**Author's Note:**

> I guess Miya Atsumu = Kageyama Tobio insofar as they both like waxing poetic about their food. Or stomachs. While on the court. In game. Never change, you two.
> 
> \---
> 
> A few notes:
> 
> 1\. Rosemary indeed helps you remember a lot of things. Also good with steak. Thanks for that info, Wikipedia.  
> 2\. I'm still very much confused with the tags. I'll get the hang of it, guys.  
> 3\. Both of them (Hinata and Atsumu) speak in the same manner, but I tried to emphasize the Miya twins' unique eloquence as a nod to the Kansai dialect. Tell me if that worked out as well as I hoped it would.
> 
> \---
> 
> Drop by my [Twitter](http://twitter.com/entremelement) and say hi. We're all just trying to keep ourselves afloat during these times, and I'm sure we'd all appreciate the company.


End file.
